


The Will to Power. Book 1: War in the North

by xcaliber234



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3925207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcaliber234/pseuds/xcaliber234
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his destiny fulfilled, Darion Octavias, The Dragonborn, has spent his days roaming Skyrim. However something is awakening within him. Not a desire for riches or for fame, but for what the Dragons are meant to do: Dominate. But his hunger is great, and there is only one thing that will satisfy it. Following in the footsteps of Tiber Septim, and conquering all of Tamriel. The road to the Ruby Throne is long and perilous, and there is only so much a mortal man can do. For Darion Octavias, the frozen lands of Skyrim will either be the birthplace of his new Empire, or its grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The beginning

"Long has the Storm Crown languished with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it to you in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atomora of Old. You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North. Hearken to it."  
The words of the Grey Beards echoed through Darion's head over and over again, his mind analysing words like Storm Crown, Kyne, Shor, and Ysmir. Each were powerful names. Names that the Nords worshipped in their vast and sometimes confusing pantheon.  
He sat there in the Old Hroldan inn, a plate of bread and cheese in front of him along with a cup of alto wine. Beside him sat Lydia, who chewed hungrily into her venison, and drank heartily from a large mug of mead. They both wore long black cloaks, that had had dried and warmed over the fire before donning them again. When they had walked in the cloaks had been completely soaked through, having had only just managed to make it to the inn high in the Reach before the worst of a great thunder storm hit. Raindrops pelted the roof like rocks and thunder rolled overhead imitating the roar of a dragon. Though perhaps that had just been wishful thinking on Darion's part.  
When they had arrived the inn had been empty save for the owner Eydis and her son Skuli. However as the storm pressed the peace and quite that Darion normally enjoyed with quickly disappeared as traders, wandering sellswords, and shepherds all piled into the inn, all of them drinking and eating merrily as they waited for the storm to pass. In truth Darion could have just shouted and the storm would disappear in a matter of seconds, revealing a clear night sky with all the stars in the heavens shining in all their majesty. However the Greybeards had taught him that such acts were a childish and wanton misuse of the Voice, and that if he shouted away clouds every time it so much as dripped on his head it would could disrupt the balance of nature. Though he didn't care much for the monks and their warnings of his power, he didn't want to be the one responsible for any repercussions of nature, Kynareth was not famous for her mercy with those who tried to bind the will of nature to their own.  
As he continued to lose himself in his thoughts, he found himself being pushed from behind as a young man, a red headed goat herder, no more than fifteen by the looks of height and ragged clothing (as well as the smell of goats), having bumped into him in due to the throng of patrons. Almost on instinct Lydia stood from her seat, grabbing the boy by his clothes and held him a good few inches off the ground. Though she did not look it, especially with her cloak on, she was probably stronger than any man in the inn, maybe even Darion as well, but he did not dare think about it.  
"Watch where you're going, boy!" she said with fury as the eye of every man was drawn to the situation. With nothing to do but drink the Nords were almost waiting for someone to start a fight.  
"Lydia," Darion said in a firm tone, loud enough to catch the housecarls attention over her zealous defence of her thane. "No harm was done, let the boy be." Lydia responded instantly, dropping the boy who fell to the ground with a thud. He looked up at the towering figure of the housecarl before scrambling away into the crowd, most of which watched Lydia with ready eyes as she sat back down next to her Thane. Slowly the situation became a memory, as the patrons returned to their drinks and conversations, seemingly forgetting about the two cloaked figures. Lydia was loyal, there was no denying that. Her quickness to react was one of the reasons Darion liked her.  
"I'm sorry Darion," Lydia spoke as she poked at her food. "It's the mead, gets me a little riled up."  
"If I had a problem with the effect that liquor had on your anger I would have asked Jarl Balgruuf for a new Housecarl." Darion smiled as he took a sip from his wine.  
"I know, it's just that you were thinking, and you always let your guard down when you're thinking." Lydia said as she took a drink from her own mug. Darion paused for a moment, looking at his Housecarl.  
"How do you know when I'm thinking?" Lydia smiled as she wiped her mouth.  
"Wouldn't be a good Housecarl if I didn't, eh?" she asked. The Dragonborn simply returned the smile, shaking his head. Since the day he reluctantly accepted her into his service she had surprised him. She knew most of his habits well enough that she was the one who suggested things to do if he was ever bored and had coin on hand. She knew almost the exact spot in the sky the moon would need to be before he finally got to sleep, she knew all of his favourite meals and beverages and even which people in various towns he did or didn't like. "So," Lydia continued to speak, "what were you thinking about?"Darion sat in silence for a few moments, though he was unsure why. Lydia was his Housecarl, bound by honour to serve and protect him no matter what. So why was he so hesitant to tell her."You don't have to tell me" she continued, "I was just-"  
"It's fine," Darion cut her off. "In all honesty, I'm not sure who to talk to about this."  
"About what?" The Dragonborn quickly looked over his shoulder, to ensure that no one was still paying them any attention.  
"It's been nearly two months since I came back from Sovengarde. Nearly two months since there's been word of any dragon attacks."  
"And?" Lydia asked, unsure of what he meant. "You said yourself that Paarthunax left to teach the way of the voice to other dragons."  
"Yes, but that's just it. When he told me that I had the strongest voice amongst dragons, and when I saw them all bowed to me, I felt this rush. It was the same feeling I had whenever I killed a dragon, only better. Like I had everything I ever wanted."  
"That was just adrenaline," Lydia insisted, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Even us non-Dragonborns get it whenever we win. I think you were just happy that you won."  
"That's what I thought for a while," Darion sighed. "But remember that bandit chief I fought at Knife Point Ridge a month ago?"  
"Yeah, that Orc who almost cleaved you in two." Lydia said, looking down in shame. She had been distracted by two other bandits, and had neglected to protect Darion. The bandit had been ready to cleave Darion in two if not his power of the voice. If he hadn't been the Dragonborn, she would have failed her duty.  
"Before learning I was Dragonborn," Darion continued, "I would get the same rush from fighting guys like that all the time. After I killed my first dragon, that feeling only came with dragon slaying." He stopped, looking to his wine for a moment. "I think that-"  
"Hey! You two in the cloaks!" a voice cut across them, as well as all the noise of the tavern. It's accent was clearly Nordic, thick and gruff. Darion and Lydia turned in their seats to see a man, Nord, a full head of red hair, one hand grasped around a large mug, the other at his belt, where he kept an axe. Lydia's hand dove into her cloak, already wrapping around the hilt of the Blade of Whiterun. She stopped however when Darion raised his hand slightly, shaking his head. The blade remained in its sheath, but her hand remained tight on the hilt. The man continued to approach, taking a swig from his mug before shoving it into the grasp of another patron.  
"Who do you think you are?" he asked as he stood before them. "Picking up me boy like that just because he bumped into ya?" Darion's eyes flicked to the side to spot the boy in the crowd, standing far enough away that he shouldn't have been able to see Darion's face under his hood, but still he flinched under the gaze of the Dragonborn. "I want your names Talos damn you," the man continued. "You've laid your hands on me son, that's a crime to me."  
Darion could not help but chuckled, angering the man. "Trust me sir, you don't want to know what crime is." His words only seemed to anger the man further as he noticed Darion's accent.  
"An Imperial, why am I not surprised," he raised a thick finger at Darion. "You're kind ain't welcome here, Scum of the Empire, not since Ulfric took the Reach from your wretched hands."  
Taking the wine from the table, Darion held it to his lips, there were several insults he formulated within those few seconds of silence, it would only take one of them to continue boiling the man's anger.  
"Ulfric must be getting desperate, if he's willing to trade loyal cities just to get a hold of this pile of rocks and silver." He looked to the man, making sure that the Nord saw his smile. "Though I can't say the same for his armies, the man himself is a coward."  
"How dare you!" the man shouted, joined by the grunts and nods of fellow patrons. "Ulfric is going to be High King soon! And when he is, there will be no place in Skyrim for Imperial rats like you to hide!" Darion stood at this, slowly however, not in a rush or in anger. Lydia stood up with him, quickly and on instinct. Darion looked up at the man, who stood a good two heads above him.  
"That's odd," he said, though remained silent after that.  
"What is?" the Nord asked.  
"You didn't refer to him as the true high king. It seems like everywhere I go that's all anyone ever says." The Nord stepped forward, Lydia moved to intercept but a flick of Darion's hand kept her back. Soon the tower of muscle and meat stood directly over Darion, looking down on him smelling of mead and goats.  
"I have my reasons." he said, his voice low and violent. "Now, are you going to apologise for having your whore lay her hands on my boy." Darion's hand clenched into a fist at that.  
"Only after you apologise for calling my friend a whore."  
The Nord's head lowered down to Darion's level, past his face, whispering in his ear, "Make me," he challenged. Darion sighed. So much for a night in, he thought to himself.  
"How about we take this outside," he suggested. "No need to get blood all over this fine establishment."  
A low chuckle came from the Nord, his blood lust fuelled by anger and drink. "Fine by me," he said.

The two of them found their way outside into the rain and the mud, along with over a dozen onlookers who stood under the verandah. Darion's cloak quickly became soaked through again. A chill would have crept through any normal man's spine, but was far beyond any normal man. Most of the small crowd cheered on the Nord as he threw off his shirt, revealing a hairy, musclebound chest.  
"I would know your name before I kill you," the man said.  
"It's polite in any part of Tamriel to give your name first." Darion replied as he un tied the cord around his chest that kept his cloak on.  
"I am Jolf, son of Jorolf," he said, drawing his axe. "And you?"  
Darion untied his cloak, throwing it to the side, allowing Jolf to see just who he was fighting. An Imperial, short brown hair and green eyes. His armour was a mixture of plate and leather, with, plate gauntlets and cauldrons, along with a hardened leather berate plate and greaves. Under it all he wore a black tunic, which started to become heavier the more rain soaked in.  
"My name is Darion Octavius," he said calmly as he reached to his back, his hands gripping the hilt of his sword. He drew it, and even with all the rain and thunder all who gathered could hear the rasp of the blade exiting it's sheath. The hilt and cross guard made of a black metal, the blade itself from a material that Jolf did not even recognise. "Are we going to fighting to the death, or till one of us gives in?" Darion asked.  
"I don't plan on giving up, I don't plan on letting you live either," Jolf barked as swung his axe in front of him, making himself use to the weight. It was clear to Darion that the Nord did not use the weapon often, it was most likely a precaution taken to keep wolves away form his goats.  
"As you wish." Darion said as he closed his, almost sadly.  
"Divines have mercy on you!" Jolf shouted, charging in, his axe raised above his head. He let out a cry that resembled something of a beast, the kind of war cry that the Nords were famous for. Despite this however, Darion stood still, his sword point at the ground. As he closed in, Jolf began to swing his axe, it's blade aimed for Darion's neck.  
As the blade closed in on him, a bolt of lighting exploded in the sky above them, shaking the highlands fo the Reach, and blinding all who watched the duel with its light. When Jolf's vision cleared, he found the cold edge of Darion's blade against his throat. His eyes darted to his own weapon, having thought that there was no way that the Imperial could have countered his attack. It was then that he saw that he had not countered. He no longer held an axe in his hand, but rather the remains of one. The iron blade had been cut away cleanly, leaving Jolf with only a wooden handle.  
His eyes quickly flicked to downward, to find the Imperial strange sword at his throat. He quickly let go of the remains of his weapon, his body shivering, without the chill of the rain and the certainty of his own death. His eyes slowly me Darion's gaze, the Imperials eyes filled with a savage glare. It was similar to the kind of glare a wolves gave him when he defended his goats. Though this was far different. The way the wolves stared at him were daring looks, a fire in their eyes that signalled a challenge. There was no look like that in the Imperial's gaze, for a challenge implied the possibility of failure, and Darion stared at him like it was his right to kill him like this. As if Jolf had been born and raised, set on his path as a humble herder from Rorickstead to be lead to Old Hroldan by fate so that he could by the sword at the hands of an Imperial.  
"On your knees," Darion said, barely above a whisper. Jolf complied, kneeling into the mud, the blade never leaving his neck. "You have lost this fight," he continued, "you stated the rules of engagement, I shall abide by them."  
"P-please sir," Jolf began to sob, "I was a fool, a bloody fool! I have my family to take care of, please sir."  
"And yet you would throw your life into the hands of fate in duel with a stranger," Darion scoffed. "Your life should be forfeit for the sheer sake of your own stupidity." He pressed the blade further into the mans skin, his grip tightening. "May this teach you a lesson you will never forget," he said before drawling the blade across the mans throat.  
To his regard Jolf did not scream, he merely peered into the crowd, at his boy, as if to say goodbye. He waited for the warmth of his own blood, streaming down his chest, to feel the life slowly flow out of him. This was perhaps the best way to meet his death, and to move forward to Sovengarde. However as he waited, no death came. The stinging pain at his neck remained, and he could feel the warm trickle of blood, but death did not come.  
The Nord turned to see Darion pull his blade away from his throat, the murderous glare gone now, replaced by a emotionless stare. Jolf's hand went to his throat. The was no gaping mount of torn flesh. All he could feel was a deep but thin cut along his neck. he pulled his hand away, and there was indeed a lot of blood, but no where near enough that it should kill him.  
"B-but…" Jolf stammered, "you won, you should kill me."  
"The scar that cut will leave will serve you as a reminder for the rest of your days just how foolish you are. And something tells me your boy can't lead all your goats home," Darion stated, "besides, it would be bad for my reputation if I walked a around cutting the throats of goat herders." He smiled as he sheathed his sword. "Something tells me people would be a little less receptive to a Dragonborn who left boys fatherless." He began walking back towards the inn, scooping up his cloak as he walked.  
"Wait!" Jolf called, and Darion turned back to see that the Nord was still on his knees, though facing towards him now, his hands in the mud as well. "You're… the Dragonborn?" he asked, his eyes wide. "The Vanquisher of Alduin?"  
"I killed him, yes." Darion answered simply. At this the mans head lowered, low enough that he'd be eating the mud beneath him. A clatter behind him caused Darion to turn back to the audience who had gathered on the verandah, all of whom were now kneeling towards him, including Jolf's son. Darion looked to to Lydia with a surprised look, one that matched the one that the housecarl shared.  
"You mentioned before," Jolf began, "that I didn't refer to Ulfric as the 'true' high king'. Ulfric will ultimately win this war, he has the people behind him, and I support his cause." Jolf's head shot up, his eyes aimed right at Darion's. "But… the Dragonborn always did right by Skyrim, and they were only people who could truly unify us Nords. So if there is one man in all of Skyrim that deserves to wear the crown, it is you! Imperial or not!" Darion's widened, and he had to stop his jaw from dropping at these words.  
"You're sure that you're not just saying that because I spared your life?" he asked. "I'm not even of noble birth."  
"You kill dragons!" another man spoke from the crowd, a young sell sword by the looks of him, his gaze not meeting Darion's. "My village, it was attacked some months ago by a dragon. My family survived and sent me a letter. You killed the Dragon, taking it's soul, and then walked away, asking for nothing in return. They said that if it hadn't have been for you, many more would have died." His eyes now locked with the Dragonborn's. "My sword is yours, if ever you need it Dragonborn."  
More men added their praise to the chorus, each of them having some friend or relative who Darion had saved, most simply praising his conquest over Dragons. Each of them added words of their service, each even offering different weapons, everything from swords and axes to pitch forks and spoons.  
At first the praise was nothing but flattering for Darion. It was not often he enjoyed being recognised for his deeds, and this was the first time people pledged themselves to him. As he smiled at the praise however, he felt something, like a rumbling deep within his body. His blood began to boil, and despite the rain the chill of the night, he found himself with a fever, sweat running down his forehead feeling like boiling water. As his head began to spin, he found himself pushing through the crowd, back into the inn and into his room, slamming the door behind him. As he stepped into the room, he haunched over, feeling like he had to vomit. This feeling was like nothing he had ever felt before, and he wasn't sure what it was.

Lydia had to push past at least a two dozen people, ignoring the questions and pestering of nearly all of them. Most of them were questions about why Darion had stumbled back to his room, others about when his coronation would be. However she ignored most of them. When she finally reached the door, she had to turn to the crowd behind her, glaring at them almost as harshly as Darion could. Once they backed up and went back to their drinks, Lydia burst into their room, closing the door behind her, her hand already drawing her sword.  
When her eyes adjusted to the dark however, she did not see any danger, all she saw was her Thane, haunched over in the middle of the room. She scanned the room quickly again. There were no threats. No sounds. But hat wasn't true. Their was a sound, laughter. She could hear laughter. Not a hearty laugh, lke one would at a joke, nor a small giggle at a woman who admitted she was still a virgin. It was the kind of laugh that parents would imitate to their children when the villain was about to defeat the hero in a bed time story.  
"Darion?" she asked, moving slowly towards him. "Are you alright."  
"That's it," he said. "that's what I've been missing. That's what I've needed."  
Lydia stood silent for a moment. "What is? What's wrong?"  
At that Darion turned to face her, and as much as he looked happy, the look he held on his face, the smile, his wide eyes filled with excitement, she could not help but feel a shiver run up her spine.  
"I'm Dragonborn," he said, stepping towards her. "I have the body of a human, but the blood and soul of a dragon." Lydia had to stop herself from stepping away from him as he approached, standing only inches away from her. "It's as I was taught by Paarthunax," he said, his excitement increasing. "It's what I've been missing, it's why I've been so restless! Dov Wahlaan fah reel," he spoke in the Dragon's tongue.  
"Darion," Lydia asked in a soft, quite tone, "What does that mean?"  
A smile continued to creep across Darion's face. "Dragons were made to dominate."


	2. Change begins

One Year Ago:

"We are honoured to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn," Balgruuf spoke, handing Darion a sword of remarkable quality before the gathered court of Dragonsreach, made up of nobles and merchant lords alike. Darion had seen similar kinds used by the Companions, those glorified mercenaries. He accepted the gift all the same, swinging it in front the Jarl, testing it's weight. Darion wore a simple set of Iron armour, complete with gauntlets and greaves. The sword that hung at his side had the markings of the Legion, it's cross guard decorated with a dragon. It had been one of the few things he had been able to grab when he ran from Helgen, but despite it's humbleness, it was a fine weapon made with the utmost care and skill. It was a soldiers sword, the kind that killed with ease and was sturdy and strong. This new sword in his hands was a undoubtedly of superior quality, but Darion had grown accustomed to his own sword, and was likely to use it for a while to come.   
"A remarkable weapon my lord," he said. "I'll put it to good use," 'eventually' he added in thought.  
"I'm sure you will, Dragonborn, it's long way to the Throat of the World, even by horseback, and with the war going on all matter of scum and monstrosities have crept their way onto the roads."  
"My Jarl, I just took down a Dragon, something tells me that I can handle a few spiders," Darion spoke, still confident and full of energy after his fight with the dragon.  
"All the same, I would feel safer sending you with some protection, and as a Thane it is a necessity for you anyway." A brow rose on Darion's face.  
"Necessity?" he asked. The Jarl smiled and nodded, waving his hand to someone who stood behind the Dragonborn. Darion turned to find a Nord woman with long black hair. She wore a mixture of steel and furred armour, carrying a sword on her hip and a shield on her back. To say the least she was beautiful, bearing the likeness of both soft hearted girl and the battle readiness of a woman, which in all honesty, Darion thought, was what most Nord woman looked like.  
"Dragonborn," Balgruuf continued, "this is Lydia, I am assigning her to be your personal housecarl."  
"Housecarl?" Darion asked, turning back to Balgruuf, almost sounding insulted, though he did his best to hide it. "Forgive me Jarl Balgruuf but I have no want or need for a bodyguard. I move much faster and work much better on my own."  
"Housecarls are no simple bodyguards," spoke Irileth, the Jarls own Housecarl, a Dark Elf with the famous ash grey skin and red eyes of her people that matched her hair. "They are an extension of heir masters will, their sword and their shield. They vow to protect you and all you own with their very lives. There is no soldier or mercenary in all of Tamriel that can match the loyalty of someone given the title of Housecarl." The elf's crimson eyes looked to Lydia, her gaze softening and a small smile on her lips. "Lydia is a one such person, and a talented warrior. I daresay she is one of the most accomplished warriors in Whiterun." The Nord woman bowed to the Dark Elf.  
"I am honoured by your praise," she said, having spoken for the first time since she arrived. She stood straight and looked to Darion before kneeling once again, which caused Darion to grow strangely restless, but he pushed it aside. "If you will have me my Thane, I declare my sword and my shield to you. I will guard you and all you are with my very being. There is nothing in this world that I will not gladly face in battle for you, no mountain I will not climb or oceans I will not swim. I will follow you into the darkest places and-"  
"Alright, I get it, you're loyal!" Darion interjected. "If it makes you cease with all these oaths and promises I'll let you tag along," he sighed. Lydia looked up at him, surprised. It seemed as if she had rehearsed that speech all day to convince him. He shook his head before turning back to the Jarl. "I suppose I'll take her, but I take no responsibility if I return alone with tales of her demise at the hands of a troll or a bear."  
"It is tales of yours that I would be most displeased to hear Dragonborn," Balgruuf laughed. "It is a housecarls place to die before their master, if she does meet her end out there her name will be honoured, we will of course find you a new one." Darion's eyes narrowed for a moment at that. They were careless words, thrown about as if the woman was some tool to be used and replaced. Though he honestly could not care less about the her, he hated words like the Jarls. He knew all to well the feeling of being swept aside as if he were nothing. All same he kept his mouth shut.  
"By the way, Jarl Balgruuf," he said, changing the subject for the his own sake, "I wanted to ask you a question."  
"Ask," the jarl said with a smile, "and I will answer as best as a can."  
"I couldn't help but notice the distinct lack of soldiers you have within your walls," Darion began, "I was wondering as to why that might be."  
"If this is some kind of argument to ensure that Lydia remains here, then I ask that you stop right there." Balgruuf said, his voice firm and commanding.  
"Of course not," Darion continued. "It's just that it seems that in the other Hold Capitals, there's not only a garrison of guards, but of soldiers too, be they Imperial or Stormcloak." A small smirk crept it's way onto the dragonborn's face. "I could not see either within your walls." The Jarl sighed and ran a hand through his thick blonde beard, before his eyes met with Darion's once more.  
"What are you trying to say, Dragonborn? Whose side are you going to try and convince me to join?"  
"No ones, Jarl," Darion assured, though his mocking tone was noted by all in the court. "it was just a curiosity I had." The jarl leaned forward in his throne, as if to intimidate him, but the Nord was careful, he was not fully aware of what this Dragonborn was capable of.  
"I will leave slaying dragons to you," Balgruuf spoke, his voice low now, his words only for Darion and not the rest of his court. "In return, I would appreciate if you left matters of diplomacy and security to me." Darion said nothing, and merely bowed his head. He looked over the sword one more time before sliding it into it's sheath that he held in his other hand.   
"Well, if I've been summoned by these monks, I best not delay." He bowed to the Jarl once more. "Jarl Balgruuf."  
"Gods be with you Dragonborn," the ageing Jarl spoke. "I guarantee you will need their help before this dragon menace has ended." And with that Darion turned on his heel and strode out of the Jarl's court, the eyes of various Noble Lords, soldiers and servants following him as he made his way out of Dragonsreach, Lydia shadowing him out of the the palace. The two of them stepped out of the Jarl's Palace and into the cool evening air. Down below the palace throughout the city, Darion could hear music and celebration as Whiterun celebrated the death of the Dragon that most of them had not even seen.   
"They honour you, my Thane," Lydia said, "You won a great victory today. They will surely remember you for that."  
"What do I care that they remember me?" Darion replied bitterly. "The people believe me to be a saviour, that I'll slay the dragons and save the world, or some such nonsense." Lydia's brow rose at this.   
"Is that not what you're going to do? What you should do?" She walked past him to look him in the eye, an act that Darion found particularly annoying. "I understand that you're not a Nord, and you're not fully aware of what being Dragonborn means, but-"  
"And what does it mean, 'Housecarl'?" he spat. "What does it mean to be Dragonborn to you?" She was silent, looking down to the celebrations as if to reflect on the question. Darion thought for a moment that he had silenced her into submission but her eyes quickly met his again, this time with a fire in them.  
"It means knowing right from wrong," she began. "About seeing the darkness in the world and having the power to do something about it. You may not realise it, my Thane, but you're blood is sacred in Skyrim. You're the one kind of person that people can look up to, regardless of who you are and they will follow you."  
"Just like you will?" Darion asked smugly. Lydia's eyes narrowed, as if there were nothing but spite for him, and yet at the same time respect.  
"I am sworn to carry your burdens," she growled, "but you really are a bastard, remember that." Darion did his best to stare her down, but he could not help himself from chuckling. Lydia looked surprised to see him laugh, let alone smile. When his fit was finished, Darion threw her the sword the Jarl had given him.  
"We'll start with that," he said as he continued to walk past her. "I promised the jarl I'd put it to good use, so my promises are your promises now. And in the future," he stopped and turned back to her "I want you to be as direct and blunt with me as you see fit, I have no affection for flattery or mindless obedience, agreed?" Lydia's face still held the look of surprise, but it slowly turned into a smirk, bordering on a smile.  
"Sure," she said. "But don't expect me to carry everything you give me in the future." Darion returned the smirk, before turning and walking down the stairs into the city.  
"I think we're going to get along just fine, Lydia."

 

Present Day:

She pulled the sword slightly from it's sheath, turning it in her hands. A smile crossed her lips as she admired the metal work, as well as the memories attached with it. She quickly slid the blade back in, before pulling the fur cloak further around her shoulders as she peered down into the world below. The Throat of the World surely lived up to its name, it's towering height and mesmerising views were enough to remind Lydia of that each time she climbed the seven thousand steps with Darion. The first time they had made the climb, they had underestimated just how high the mountain was, and both found themselves out of breath and exhausted when they finally reached High Hrothgar after a weeks worth of walking. Ever since then they had made the journey dozens of times, be it retrieving the horn Jurgen Windcaller, or to learn a new word of power. Regardless, the two of them were use to the climb now, enough so that they were capable of sharing idle talk and quickly find themselves before the doors of the monastery. And still after all this time the monks refused to let her inside.   
Even when Darion had gathered the Imperials and the Stormcloaks together to discuss a ceasefire to the civil war, she was not allowed inside. She, like many of the soldiers and bodyguards that the two sides had brought remained outside. The worst part had been that Darion had entrusted her to ensure that neither side started killing each other. That had probably been the longest few hours of her life.   
She sighed. However it seemed that any time Darion stepped through High Hrogthgar's doors the hours seemed to stretch on.

It had taken him another day of climbing, but eventually Darion found himself at the summit of the mountain. The ride from the Reach as well as the climb up the mountain had given him more than enough time to calm down his blood. When he looked back on how he acted, he was even terrified at kind of mindset he had been on. How he had approached Lydia. Now that he knew what it was, it felt like he was in control of it. However, as much as he felt he could suppress it, he had no idea what could possibly happen if he lost control. It was possible that he could just act excited again. Or it was possible that he could actually harm someone, and with a power like the Voice he hated to see what he could do if he lost control. However he did smile as he climbed. Though he knew what he spoke of to Lydia about in the inn had been purely a result of his excitement, the prospect of it, the possibility of it was all to enticing for him. If following this new ambition was losing control, he was starting to like it.  
As he paced around the summit, rubbing his hands together for warmth, he allowed himself the rare moment to stop and enjoy the view below him. Skyrim, a vast and beautiful country. The view from atop the Throat of the World was vast and endless, though he knew the borders did exist. At that moment though the land was laid out before him like a painting, it's artist one of divine talent and skill. Though Skyrim was considered coldand hospitable by many, it took living there, truly living there, to understand and appreciate its unique and beautiful design. From the jagged ice cliffs of Winterhold, to lush green forests of Falkreath, all the way to the vast plains of Whiterun. Every imperfection in it's landscape made perfect and beautiful by nature.   
'No wonder the Dragons like it here so much,' he thought to himself. Sighing, he stepped away from the view, moving towards the word wall that stood in solitude on the mountaintop. There he kneeled before it, taking up the meditative position the Greybeards had taught him with his yes closed. He didn't care much for their philosophies or their prayers, but he had found that meditation on the words of power truly gave him aid. Just by spending an hour a day contemplating on a single word, he gave it a sharper, more precise definition, and thus his thu'um became stronger. And as one of the 'sossedov' , one with Dragonsblood, having stronger thu'um meant having the greater say amongst his immortal brethren.  
As he knelt there, the snow seeping in through his amour, bringing a numbing chill to his body, he focussed on the words he required. They were dark words, ones that carried the burden of sin for thousands of years. But they were powerful, and in his time of indecision, they were the words that Darion needed. He inhaled deeply, letting the thin mountain air enter his lung. With his lungs full, his mind in tune with the words of power, he let his voice be heard in a shout that echoed across Skyrim, to wherever in Tamriel it needed to be heard. Ambition, Overlord, Cruelty.  
"Paar Thur Nax!" he shouted, his voice exploding in the air around him, it's sound carrying over mountainside. Even as the shout silently died away into the distance, Darion did not move. He remained on his knees before the word wall, and continued to meditate. He did not bring any books from him, and he felt he was to be in for a long wait.

As the sun began to set, and the winds grew silent, Darion remained in meditation. Even he had to admit he had been strangling not to fall asleep, as was his tendency if left in meditation long enough. As he continued to sit there, his mind focussed around a particular set of words. Fus, Ro, Dah, 'Force, Balance, Push'. It was the first shout he had ever mastered, and by far one of his personal favourites. When used by Dragons, or the Greybeards, it had the power to destroy entire castle with it's unrelenting force. It was said to be the same shout that Tiber Septim had used to destroy the gates of Old Hroldan. Darion planned for even greater deeds than some breaching a barbarian camp.  
As his mind contemplated the words however, a wind began to creep its way across the mountaintop. Darion paid it no mind, the wind and the peaks of Skyrim went hand in hand like star crossed lovers. However, slowly the wind began to pick up, becoming stronger and more violent. But Darion remained in meditation, refusing to let his will be broken by a bit of wind. However, as he remained in position, the wind grew, and soon Darion found himself knocked over, a loud thud following his own fall. As he let himself open his eyes, he came to face to face with large creature, it's torn wings and greying scales looking like that of an old man, despite the creature's immortality.   
"Drem yolk Lok," greeted Paarthurnax as he folded his wings and took his perch on the word wall. His sky blue eyes met Darion's, who could not help but smile at the sight of them.  
"You look even older than when you left, the other dragons giving you that much trouble?" Darion joked, standing up and patting the snow from his body.  
"I do not grow old, Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax said, showing what counted as a smile amongst dragons. "You however are looking volz fah ahtiid, worse for wear as the joor say." Darion laughed at this, glad to see that the old dragon had gained something that resembled a sense of humour in his absence.  
"It's only been a few months, I plan to live a lot longer than that."  
"Months feel more like minutes for the Dov. Vahzen, time has a much different feeling for the vozahlaas, the immortal."   
"Or perhaps you do not feel time at all, maybe that's a gift only mortals possess." Darion argued. "Tiid los fah joor, gein wo kent wahl pruzaan voth fos kesaal laas mu lost." The dragon seemed seemed surprised that the Dragonborn spoke so fluently in the Dragons tongue.  
"You have been studying our tongue it seems," he spoke, "but your accent is fus, forced, you do not speak it as naturally as you can." Darion shrugged.  
"Well when you leave me Odahviing as a teacher, you can expect a results like that," Darion shrugged. Paarthurnax stretched his long neck before looking back down to the Dragonborn. "Now, may I ask why I have been called away from my quest?"  
"Forgive the intrusion," Darion said, "But I have questions that need answered." Paarthurnax almost chuckled at this, if that's what it was he was doing Darion thought.  
"Do rah, you always seem to expect me to know the answers."  
"Only because you're the one who seems to know everything around here." Darion argued.  
"Very well, what are your questions, Dovahkiin?" Darion paced before the ancient creature, unsure of what to ask first.   
"I am… at odds with myself," he began. "I have fulfilled the prophesy, Alduin is dead. And now I am unsure what use a Dragonborn has in this world."  
"Vonum diron, it is a common thought, shared with many who find themselves no longer a piece in the games that fates play with us all."  
"There's so much I can do… so much that I wish to do, and yet I do not know whether I am meant to take those paths." The dragon's head tilted slightly in curiosity.  
"And what paths are those?" Darion remained silent. He trusted Paarthurnx greatly, and held his teachings and character in the highest regard, high enough that he would question the desires of the Blades for justice. And yet he feared how the dragon might think about his desires.  
"Were you there," Darion continued, "when the Greybeards proclaimed Tiber Septim as Dragonborn?" It was the Paarthurnax's turn to be silent for a few moments.  
"I did not proclaim his blood, as the other Greubeards did, I already felt the presence of his sossedov, and had no need to shout at the world to signal his coming."  
"Did you meet him?"  
"That I did," Paarthunax reflected. "He insisted on meeting me, on learning from me as you did." He fell silent for a moment, watching the mountaintop as if he saw that day unravelling before him then. "You should have seen him, Dohvahkiin, never before had there been one of his kind with that same cunning and ferocity in his eyes."  
"What was he like," Darion asked, desperate to know more. At his question the Dragon smiled, and looked back to Darion.  
"He was very much like you, goraan ahrk jahrii do lanai, young and full of questions, and expecting me to answer them all. We spoke for nearly a day before he departed, and as he left me I knew that the world below was about to change, for better or worse I had no idea." His blue eyes searched Darion's, as if the looking deep enough into them would tell him what the young mortal was thinking. "You feel it now, do you not? The same right that every Dovah is created with." Darion fell silent for a moment. Perhaps the Dragon really could read his mind.  
"The will to power," Darion spoke, "The need to dominate." Paarthunax nodded at this. He had sensed on his journey that something had changed within the Dovahkiin's heart, not change of morales or principles, but of a desires and ambitions.  
"To answer your vofun laan, your unspoken question; Do what you feel you have to. If this what your blood demands, then listen to it, but be careful that you do not fall into it's demands, otherwise you will find yourself with more blood on your hands than you need concern yourself with." Darion slowly looked to his left hand, as if he could already feel warmth of blood on them.   
"And what if blood stains my hands, regardless of my will?" he asked. At this Paarthurnax began to extend his wings, flapping them with the force of a hurricane. The force of his wings slowly lifted him from the ground, and he began to fly away, but not before leaving him with one final piece of counselling.  
"Ni waan, hi fen lost sos nau hin haal." he spoke, his voice echoing in Darions head as his grey winged form disappeared into the horizon, returning to only the gods knew where.   
The Dragonborn watched on, even after Paarthurnax long disappeared into the night, the only thing remaining was his words. And as much as it made Darion sick to the stomach, he could not help but smile as he felt his dragon blood begin to burn once more. He turned, and began the long walk back down the mountain. Though from then on, he truly had no idea what fate had in store for him. With Alduin dead he had completed the only destiny that had been written for him by the Elder Scrolls. Now it was his own turn to write one. Though he was stretching the translation, Darion understood perfectly what Paarthurnax had said to him. "Ni waan, hi fen lost sos nau hin haal, 'Not if, you will have blood on your hands'. And yet Darion continued to smile as he defended the Throat of the World, and much like Tiber Septim left hundreds of years ago, when he returned to the world below, things were going to change.


	4. Plans

The warm breath of Darion's horse covered his hands as the beast sniffed in the scene of the apple he held there. It quickly snatched up the morsel, chomping on it loudly, spare pieces and juice falling back into his hand. He smiled, wiping his hand on his sides as the beast happily continued to eat, attracting the eye of the other horses in the stable who now had a desire for apples. With their horses stabled outside the city walls, Darion and Lydia began their walk towards the gates of Whiterun.  
"There's a chill in the air," Lydia noted as the two of them walked. "It's coming from the east.  
"Ulfric's army is on the march," Darion answered back. "He'll be making his move on Whiterun soon." Lydia looked to him, surprised at this.  
"How can you tell?"  
"I heard some soldiers talking it over at an inn on our way here. Though I feel they might they might be exaggerating the number of forces, it'll still be a force to be reckoned with. "I can't say I'm surprised he's the one to break the truce," Lydia said as they neared the front gate, where two guards saluted the pair as they approached. "You said that he had been quite aggressive in his negotiations.  
"Aye, demanding Markarth and Morthal, and he had the nerve to say that trading Riften was not a fair price." Darion said as he nodded to the guards. "In all honesty he's lucky I agreed to Markarth, if it hadn't been for the fact that he saved my life at Helgen, then I would have killed him there. One less party at the table would have made negotiations that much easier." 'And my plans for that matter' he added mentally.  
"The Greybeards would have never allowed it." Lydia mentions and Darion stopped and turned to his Housecarl as they passed through the gates and into the city.  
"Do you honestly think that I would have cared?" he asked.  
"Probably not," she replied with a smile. "But even you're not foolish enough to test the wrath of the Greybeards." It was Darion's turn to smile.   
"Not yet anyway." he said before walking on, leaving Lydia to roll her eyes at the idea. Though part of her knew he meant what he had said The two of them pressed onward into the city, receiving greeting and salutations from many that they passed on their way through the plains district. As they made their way through the streets they stopped outside one of the many wooden cottages that dotted the cityscape, Breezehome, Darions own house given to him by the Jarl. Darion fished through his pocket and pulled out two keys, handing them to Lydia.   
"You know that chest I keep stored under the stairs?" he asked.  
"The one that you refuse to let me look inside yet I know it's where you keep your dragon remains?" Lydia inquired mockingly.  
"Yes that one," he replied, choosing to ignore her tone. "I need you to get it up to Eorland Grey-Mane's forge." he reached into pockets once more and produced a small bag of coins as well as two sealed pieces of parchment. "Hire yourself a pair of hands too, it's heavier than it looks. And deliver one of these to Eorland, the other goes to the Harbinger."  
"Making another sword from dragonbone?" she asked, her eyes darting quickly to the sword on his back. Darion had made a special request to Grey-Mane to experiment with dragonbone to see if it could be useful besides serving as a valuable source of income. The result had been a sword of amazing craftsmanship, one that rarely required maintaining and was sharp enough to pierce the hides dragons in a single motion.  
"It's a surprise," Darion said with a smile. "Just make sure Eorland gets that letter."   
"Anything I should say?"   
"Just tell him to have it delivered back to Breezehome when it's finished." He began to walk away, but turned back to look at her one more time. "And give the new Harbinger my regards, I heard he's a decent man."  
"Where are you going?" Lydia asked, surprised she was to leave his side.  
"I need to go and speak to the Jarl, I will meet you in the market place." He said, and with one final smile he was off, leaving Lydia standing in front of the house. With a sigh the Nord woman unlocked the house and entered. She sighed again at the state of the place. In their absence cobwebs had been spun in all corners, a thick layer of dust coated just about everything and the place smell of skeever droppings. Looking past the state of the house however, the Housecarl eyes went for the chest that Darion had mentioned. She strode into the house, standing before the chest, the key in hand. Ever since he had started hunting dragons, even when he had been hunting them with the Blades he had collected as many samples of bones and scales as possible from the bodies of the monstrous beasts. After he had defeated Alduin however, and Parrthurnax left to teach other dragons the Way of the Voice, there had been quite a lack dragons to slay, and thus his supply began to dwindle. She sighed, looking to the coin purse he had left her as well.   
"I guess I'll need some help," she said as she exited to find people willing to do the heavy lifting.

Darion walked up the stairs of the palace, to the main throne room of the Jarl, who sat in council with many of his advisors. As he made his approach, Darion could not help but notice the armoured form among them. A woman, donning the armour of an officer of the Legion. He recognised the woman as Legate Rikke, General Tullius' second in command. The two had met briefly at Castle Dour in Solitude, and then again at High Hrothgar during the negotiations. She noticed his approach, and nodded a silent greeting towards him, which Darion returned in kind. When he was but a few meters from the throng of lords and courtly types, the old Jarl noticed Darion, and smiled at him, raising a hand to silence the rest of the court.  
"And so the hero of Skyrim marches into my halls after months on the road, still reeking of blood, sweat and the and other sweet perfumes of adventure."  
"Only because I smell like a breath of fresh air to one who is practically chained to his throne," Darion replied and the two of them smiled to one another. Balgruuf stood from his throne, shaking the hand of the Dragonborn, their grips fierce and friendly.  
"Avenicci," the Jarl ordered his steward, who stood to the side of the throne, "have the cooks prepare some food and drink, and have it brought out to the Great Porch."  
"B-but my lord," the Imperial stuttered, "You're currently at court."  
"Dismiss them then, I've grown tired of politics for the day." Balgruuf growled, his temper rising.  
"No need Jarl Balgruuf," Darion said, putting the court at ease, "I do not intend to stay for long, only to ask a few questions." One of the the advisors, a Redguard that Darion knew as Nazeem strode forward, brimming with confidence.  
"But my lord, surely what he had to say can wait? We are discussing matters of state, I'm sure he can sit quietly and-"  
"You would have me place you, a simple land owner, over the Dragonborn himself?" Balgruuf interjected. "You disgust me, get out of my sight, all of you!" he ordered, and the throne room became empty very quickly as lords and ladies almost ran for the doors to escape the Jarls anger. All that remained was Rikke, who stood with her hands behind her back, and her posture flawless, the mark of a disciplined soldier. "That includes you too, Rikke," the Jarl spoke, his voice becoming slightly calmer now.  
"Jarl Balgruuf, if I could just convince that-" she began to speak, but was cut off by the Jarls hand, that raised once more to silence her.  
"I've already given you my answer, I will not have Legion troops in my city. Now run back to Solitude and tell General Tullius that I thank him for his offer, but I must decline." Rikke looked to the Jarl, with almost a pleading look in her eye, before sighing, and saluting to him.   
"Talos guide you, Balgruuf," she said before nodding to Darion once more. "Dragonborn." And with that she marched out of the palace. Once she had left, Balgruuf sighed, rubbing his eyes as if to wipe away the burdens of ruling.  
"I have half a mind to throw politics to the wind and join you on one of your adventures," he said as he returned to his throne. "I may not be as spry as I once was, but I can still swing a sword better than any man." Darion chuckled at that.  
"Your company on the road would be a welcome change of scenery, but I must ask," he looked to where the Legate had stood. "You're denying Imperial troops?"  
"I have denied Imperial troops, and I will continue to deny them," Balgruuf spoke, "I have no intentions of letting the Empire fight Whiterun's battle for us."  
"Is that wise? Ulfric's army is on the move again, his target will be Whiterun."  
"Let him come," Balgruuf challenged, waving for a servant to bring him a mug of ale. "If he wishes to challenge my rule, let him, I'll not stop him."  
"I imagine he will be letting his soldiers try that, he doesn't strike me as the honourable sort who will march in and challenge you." Darion replied spitefully at the thought of the Jarl of Windhelm.  
"He did so with High King Torryg," Balgruuf noted as he took drink from his mug. "If he's half the man I fought alongside in the Great War he will do the same for me."  
"Oh yes, because that was a fair fight," Darion rebuked, receiving a wave of the Jarls hand, who clearly did not care anymore. "My Jarl I know the power of the voice more than anyone, it is not something that you can just challenge in fair combat. If he does not send his armies against your gates, he will kill you. Regardless of your skill, you're no match for the voice."  
"My decision has been made, Dragonborn," Balgruuf stated, in a surprising control of his temper. "I have heard that Torryg did not back down against the voice, so neither shall I." Darion wanted so desperately to shout at him in that moment, to let him know the potential that Ulfric could have should the two Jarls face each other. But he held himself in check, and merely sighed. Though he was known as Balgruuf the Greater, and was deserving of that title, Balgruuf the Foolish and stubborn suited him better.  
"In any case," Darion continued, "I will be here to defend Whiterun when the time comes. If the Stormcloaks don't back down against you, then they will surely think twice when they see me defending your walls." At this Balgruuf breathed what seemed to be a sigh of relief.   
"Praise the Divines," he said, raising his cup in thanks. "I'm sorry to say it Darion, but I was counting on your loyalty to Whiterun." Darion bowed his head.  
"I will be here whenever the city needs me, Jarl Balgruuf." 'Or at least as long as it serves my needs.'

 

Though it had only taken her a few minutes find a pair of hands to help her move the chest, it had taken at least half an hour of navigating through the city crowded city streets for Lydia to bring the chest to Jorrvaskr, the hall of the Companions. Whilst Darion mostly thought of them as nothing more than mercenaries, Lydia had looked up to them ever since she was a little girl. She often daydreamed of the life she would have lead if she joined their honoured ranks had she not become Darion's Housecarl. Though she was fine being referred to in the stories as 'The Dragonborn's Shield-Maiden', or simply 'The Housecarl', she liked to think about legends of her own being spread across Skyrim, and singing songs of her victories every night in the great mead hall. Regardless, she was content with her life as it was, and when she really thought about it, a lifetime by the Dragonborn's side was more valuable to her than immortality through song and legend.  
As she and her hired help, two Nords, eager to prove their strength to a beautiful woman, made their way around Jorrvaskr, they began to climb the stone steps that lead to the ancient forge. The eagle caved into the rock seemed to greet her as she climbed further towards the heat that erupted from the forge. Soon she saw the sight of Eorland Grey-Mane, his arms as thick as tree trunks as he struck red hot metal against an anvil. Though he looked old, there was no greater fire of youth that burned in Skyrim, and much like the Skyforge, it would continue to burn for many years to come.   
As she approached, the smith seemed to take notice of a presence around his forge. He hammered one final blow into the metal before dropping it into a trough of water. The metal hissed like some great serpent as steam rose from the waters surface. Eorland turned and smiled at the sight of visitors, even more so at the sight of the Housecarl.   
"Lydia," he spoke, his Nordic accent thicker than most. "How are you?"  
"I am fine, thank you," she turned to her hirelings, motioning them to bring the chest towards the smith as she pulled one of the letters. "My Thane has something for you, a request if I know his mind."  
"I'd say you know his mind better than anyone my dear, I doubt no other person in Skyrim is closer to him than you." Eorland smiled as he stepped forward, taking the letter from her. The two hirelings gently lowered the chest, groaning in pain as they finally let the burden slip from their fingers.  
"Not there you two, it's in the way!" Eorland barked, quick to anger when something was not right at his forge. "Put it over there, he said, pointing to a pile of ores and materials. The two Nords looked at each other, a disheartened look in their eyes. As they reached down to pick it up again, Eorland growled, marched over, and picked up the chest with a single arm, holding it under his arm like a keg of mead. The two Nords watched on in amazement as he carried it, and just as quickly dropped it next to the other crafting materials. He knew full well what he was dropping, he was not scared of it breaking. Lydia quickly paid the two of them and they quickly wandered off, shaking their arms free of the pain in them.  
"Now," Eorland said as he unsealed the letter. "Let's see what your Thane wants this time." His eyes quickly scanned the contents of the letter, his brow knitting together and raising several times as he read silently to himself. Lydia was almost made curious enough to snatch the letter off of him and read it herself but remained composed. When it seemed like he had finished, the old Nord took the letter, crushed it into a ball before throwing it into the fires of the skyforge, the parchment burning to ash in an instant. "That Thane of yours has a knack of pushing my craft to its limits, I'm not sure whether to respect him or punch him, maybe I could do both, assuming you don't maim me for doing so."  
"Not at all," Lydia smiled. "I punch him all the time, maybe you fist might actually straighten him out." Eorland gave a deep and hearty laugh, surprised to hear such words from a Housecarl.  
"Ah, Lydia, you know how to make an old man laugh. The Dragonborn is lucky to have you at his side." Lydia bowed her head slightly at that, mostly to hide a blush.   
"You're too kind," she said before straightening up again. "Well I must be off, I'm to meet him in the market."  
"And where what kind of grand adventure will you two be off on this time? Bear hunting perhaps? Or has Darion finally gone mad and thinks he can fist fight with a giant?"  
"I hope not, because I'll need to be the one to drag him out of there," she laughed, but her mood quickly changed to a grim one. "No, I imagine he'll want to do something about Ulfric's army, he's loyal enough to Whiterun that he'd stay and defend the city." Eorland mumbled an agreement to that. Like many of his clan, Eorland supported Ulfric's cause, and would have gladly taken up arms for him if asked. However he was one with Whiterun above all, the Skyforge, his clan, the Companions, all of it came before Ulfric. And the idea that Ulfric was marching on Whiterun of his own whim was something the old smith just could not abide.  
"I'm sure he will make the right decision, as will you I feel," he said with a smile.  
"I will follow him wherever fates take us."  
"Of that I have no doubt my dear. Tell your master I will gladly undertake this job, and that it should be ready in a week or two." The Housecarl bowed once more.  
"Thank you, I best return to my Thane, good day, Master Grey-Mane."  
"The same to you Housecarl." And with that Lydia turned and began her walk back to the stairs. As she left however, her eyes hung low tot he ground, as a result she could not see the man she ran into just as she began to her descent down the stairs. As the two of collided, her eyes snapped up to the face of Nord, short hair a dirty blonde in colour, and eyes like the sky. She had to stop herself from blushing when she realised that he was rather handsome, with a strong jaw line, a light layer of facial hair and a scar on his left cheek.  
"Pardon me," he said, his accent resembling that of an Imperial more than a Nord.   
"My apologies," she mumbled as she passed him, feeling slightly embarrassed. She heard a small chuckle from him as she wandered away.   
"Eorland," he spoke, "Is my sword ready?"  
"Indeed it is, Harbinger, finished it this morning." Lydia stopped at this, cursing silently to herself. She pulled out the second letter, the one that Darion wished her to give to the leader of the Companions. She turned slowly walked back up the stairs, seeing the sight of the man once more. He wore a set of carved Nordic armour, a mix nordic plate, fur and leather armours. If it were not for his accent, and the fact that he did not have a full beard, he would have been the epitome of a Nord. He took a sword from Eorland's grasp, one made of skyforge steel she assumed. He swung it in front of him, testing its weight and balance. He then took a stance before striking at phantom opponents that only he saw. His speed and precision were impressive, she thought to herself. Even though he fought his imaginary foes, she already started to wonder whether he could be a match for Darion. When he was finished, he held the sword by his side, exhaling deeply, trying to keep his breathing under control. It was then that his eyes flicked to her, and she found herself frozen in their gaze.   
"Back again already?" he asked. Lydia realised that she was staring and quickly shook her head free of surprise before climbing the stairs once more.  
"You are the Harbinger?" she asked.  
"Despite my best efforts," he joked. "I am Leandros Ember-Heart. And you are?" She bowed slightly to the man.  
"Lydia, Housecarl of Thane Darion, Dragonborn." It was the Harbinger's turn to look surprised. He eyed her up and down, taking in her form and physique.  
"My lady, it is an honour," he said as he bowed his head slightly. "You're fame is well deserved, and you every bit as beautiful as the stories say. I envy the Dragonborn for his company." Lydia blushed at that, averting her eyes slightly. "You're too kind, Harbinger." she said, pausing for a moment before extending out her arm, the letter held in her hand. "My Thane wishes to send you his regards, and he asks me to give you this." Leandros gently took the letter from her grasp, sliding it into a pouch that resided on his belt.  
"I'll be sure to look over it later, but first I would like to ask a few things about this, Darion." "I will answer within reason," Lydia said firmly, not ready to reveal all of her Thane's secrets.   
"Fine with me," Leandros smiled, he turned to Eorland, who was returning to his forge. "I will see you again soon Eorland," he said before turning back to the Housecarl. "Shall we?" he asked, motioning towards the stairs down to Jorrvaskr. Lydia nodded, and the two descended the stairs, and at Leandros' insistence, they made their way to the courtyard behind the mead hall, where various training dummies and reacts lined with sparing weapons sat. They took a seat on one of the tables that looked over the training area, and almost as if she were summoned magically, a old woman shuffled her way out of the mead hall, the sounds of what seemed like a brawl escaping out of the door as she pushed it open. She carried over to them a wooden tray with two cups and a jug before placing the tray down and filling both mugs with water. When she was done, Leandros smiled and nodded thank to the woman, and she shuffled away as quickly as she came.   
"So, tell me about this, Dragonborn," Leandros began as he picked up his cup. "What kind of a man is he? Is he the same as they speak of in the stories?"  
"What do they say in the stories?" Lydia asked as she took a sip from her own cup. "They say he's a mountain of meat and muscle, that he could crush a giant in an embrace." Lydia could not help but spit-take at this, and looked at him with shock.  
"You must be joking," she said, "He's shorter than I am!"  
"I figured as much, rumours and stories tend to get in the way of the truth," Leandros said with a chuckle. "Okay, next question. Is true his voice can summon storms?" Lydia smiled then.  
"Summon storms, breath fire, have animals fight at his side or even stop time," she looked to the Harbinger. "He's no where near as powerful as the Greybeards, but he's probably just as powerful as any story could ever say." Leandros leaned back in his chair, amazed.  
"Divines, now that would be a sight to see, I can only imagine how human he must look, and yet have so much power within him."  
"And whilst he won't admit it," Lydia said, smiling again in silent reflection of their travels, "He's a good man, though he will never admit it." The two of them sat there, Lydia doing most of the talking whilst Leandros listened intently. They must have sat there for at least an hour, with Lydia telling stories of discovery, triumph and adventure. As she reached the end of her tale about Darion's quest to Sovengarde, Leandros was on the edge of his seat, like a child listening to the final part of a bed time story.   
"…and when he returned, he was on top of the throat of the world, and the dragons were bowing to him," she finished, smiling. Though she had not been there personally, when Darion described it she could just imagine the swarm of dragons, ancient and wise, bowing before a mortal man. "And since then we've been wandering." Leandros was silent for a moment, as if expecting more of the story to come, but he soon sighed, shuffling back into his seat, trying to comprehend the tale that had been passed to him.  
"Amazing, there has not a story that had been sung in Jorrvaskr that is equal in glory. I look forward to meeting this Dragonborn."  
"I'm sure you will, I know that he was eager to meet you but he had some business with the Jarl and…" she fell silent, realising just how much time had passed. "Gods! I was supposed to meet him in the market place!" She scrambled from her seat, quickly bowing to Leandros. "It was an honour to meet you, Harbinger, but I must be off."  
"It is no problem at all," Leandros spoke calmly. "Stop by anytime, you and your Thane are welcome in the halls of the Companions." At this Lydia smiled, before running off as quickly as she could. How stupid could she have been. Darion probably had been waiting in the market for a while now. Though he was rarely ever bothered if she was late for anything, as a Housecarl Lydia still worried. She had neglected her duty for idle chat with a stranger, something that she knew that Darion could shrug at, but to her it was a stain on her honour. As she ran through down, ducking and weaving between townsfolk in the wind district, she wondered whether Darion's business with the Jarl hadn't concluded, and she was worried about nothing. Regardless, she should not have lost track of time. 'I can't allow myself to be distracted,' she thought to herself. 'He's my Thane and friend, and I cannot-'  
"FUS RO DAH!" At the sound of the shout, it's thunder rolling across the city, Lydia slid to a stop, her mouth falling open, her eyes widening. Though it was a sound that many dragons made, she could tell a shout from the Dragonborn anywhere. She sprinted off this time, hand on her sword as she pushed her way through the crowd now.

Darion stood in front of the stall, his mouth watering at the collection of meats on display. One of his favourite parts about Whiterun had to be the meat stall run by the Bosmer Anoriath, with fresh meat sever nearly everyday. He spied a pair of steaks, thinking they'd do well as his dinner.  
"Had enough of the salted fish and dried fruits on your travels Darion?" the elf asked happily.  
"You know it, I've been dying to sink my teeth into some real meet for weeks," Darion replied hungrily, noticing a rack of ribs as well.   
"Well you best buy them soon, I've had a lot of people looking to buy meat so they can preserve it." The elf said sadly. Darion did not need to ask. In the time he had spent wandering the markets waiting for Lydia, he had learned that the impending arrival of the Stormcloak army was on the minds of many in the city. If they were buying meat to be preserved, it means that they were getting ready for a siege, where food would be nowhere near as accessible. Though he had never been in a siege, he had a general idea of the kind of things that could occur during one. Infighting amongst the people, struggles for food and water, disease and pestilence.The coming battle would test the people in Whiterun in way he could not imagine. Everyone from the soldiers all the way to the smallest child would have their strength of mind and body put to the test.  
'Just one of the reasons that I need to be here' he thought to himself. 'In desperate times the people need to look to someone, a hero. And I can use that to my advantage in the days to come.' As he continued to peruse the items, he did not notice the two figures approaching him. The crowed parted ways for them, the guards keeping their hands on their swords. Their garbs made them out to be mages of some kind, but none of them had seen mages wear such strange masks as these two strangers did.  
As the crowd parted, they revealed the form of the Dragonborn to the strangers, who stopped, nodded to one another before pressing forward. Darion continued to be oblivious to their presence. He looked up at the face Anoriath whose eyes darted between Darion and the strangers. It was only then that the Dragonborn turned to face the two strangers, noticing how widely the crowd had parted for them. Many of the people stopped and stared at the scene, eager to see what would happen. The strangers stood at least twenty feet away now. They did not say anything, only stared at him. Their masks were identical, strange and horned, with what could only be described as tentacles hanging down like a beard. One of them had a sword at their hip and stood at least a head taller than his counterpart who held no visible weapons but Darion could sense the magic in their blood.  
"You," one of them spoke, their accent that of a Dark Elf. "You are the one they call Dragonborn?" Darion looked between the two of them, the taller one remaining silent.  
"People tent to like calling me that, aye," he said.  
"Then your lies have taken root in the hearts of the people," the Dark Elf spoke again. "We must cleanse the thoughts of such trickery from the minds of men and mer, by cleansing you!" He raised his hands at Darion, a fireball appearing in either palm, causing the crowd to panic. Two guardsmen stepped out of the crowd, their shields raised.  
"No! Don't!" Darion pleaded, but it was too late as the guards advanced on the strangers.  
"In the name of the Jarl, stop right th-" they were cut of as the Dark Elf fired two fire balls at either guard, neither having enough time to raise the shields or dodge the attack. The balls of arcane fire hit either one square in the chest, and they fell to the ground with a scream, the smell of burnt flesh filling the marketplace. As they fell, many of the people began to run, screaming for help The elf raised his hands once more, firing two more balls of fire at Darion, who stepped forward and raised his own hands. The Fireballs exploded, and anyone who still remained screamed. As the smoke cleared however, all could see the Dragonborn, his hands raised, a shield of magic light in front of him. Darion sighed with relief, he had barely enough time to raise the ward in front of him.  
The Elf snarled, and continue to throw fireballs at him, whilst the other stranger drew his sword and ran forward at Darion. As he approached, Darion blocked three more fire balls, his left hand continued to hold up the ward, whilst his right reached for the sword on his back. As the man brought his sword down, Darion cancelled the ward, raising his weapon to block the attack, the blades meeting with a metallic ring. Darion pushed the blow to the side, sending the man of balance before stepping around and slicing the back of the man ankles. The masked man screamed, the first sound he had made since he had arrived and sank to his knees in pain. As he continued to scream, Darion thrust his sword into the back of the mans head, feeling satisfied as he heard the sounds of tearing flesh, the breaking of the mask as his sword existed through the man's face, and the silence from him that followed.  
As he turned to face the Dark Elf, anger gripped him as he saw the Elf hold a woman down on her knees by her shoulder, a woman who held a young girl in her arms. Darion recognised the woman as Carlotta the woman who ran a fruit and vegetable stand in the markets with her daughter Mila.  
"You coward!" he shouted at the Elf, whose smile Darion could almost hear behind his mask.  
"Drop your weapon," he said, as his free hand ignited once more, "or they die." Darion glared at the elf, seeing no weakness of possibility of hesitation in his stance. If they want to kill Carlotta, they would do so without a second thought.  
"Damn you," Darion muttered before throwing down his sword, ringing as it struck the cobblestone. The Elf laughed viciously.  
"We were right to kill you, Deceiver. No true Dragonborn would let compassion be his weakness, when the true Dragonborn comes, the world will know and fear his power." Darion's expression changed in an instant from rage to confusion.  
"The True Dragonborn?" he asked.  
"That is right Deceiver, compared to him you are nothing but a meek pretender dancing in his shadow." The elf laughed again, motioning to Carlotta and Mila. "Their blood on your hands will be proof of your insignificance." He raised, his hand, Carlotaa holding Mila tighter as the fireball burning brighter.  
"FUS RO DAH!" Darion shouted, and the elf was sent flying backwards, crashing through several stalls, wooden splinters and wares sent flying in all directions. Carlotta remained knelt down, her eyes shut, still holding her daughter. As she came to realise what had happened, her eyes slowly opened, to see the Dragoborn walking towards her and her daughter. She opened her mouth to give thanks, but he walked right past her, walking the trail of destruction that had he had created.  
When he reached the end of the destruction, he found the elf laying on his back in a pile of splinters, a sharp length of wood protruding from his chest. His mask broken and fallen from his face Darion could see how young the Dunmer really was, with short black hair, a trail of blood running from his mouth. Darion knelt down beside him, taking hold of the protruding splinter twisting it slightly and extracting a blood curdling scream from the elf.  
"Who sent you?" Darion asked calmly, though even a blind man could hear the anger hidden beneath that false layer of calm.  
"Darion!" he heard his name called, and in the corner of his eyes he could see Lydia arriving, her sword drawn, a look of horror on her face as she viewed the scene. "What-"  
"Silence!" he barked at her, and she backed away slightly. He turned back to the elf, twisting the splinter further. "Who sent you? What did you mean by the 'True Dragonborn'?" Instead of screaming, the elf laughed, coughing up blood as he did so.  
"You're fool to tight against fate." He tried breathing, though it was clear his was drowning in his own blood. "Lord Miraak will rise, and there will be nothing that you can do to stop him. The world will bow as the one True Dragonborn returns…"  
"Who is this Miraak? Tell me!" But Darions words fell on the ears of a dead man, who gave one final breath before passing from Mundus. Darion's hand slowly slipped from the splinter, Lydia kept her distance, not daring to approach lest he still be angry. Slowly Darion began to search the body of the elf, pulling out a coin purse which he threw to the side along with a knife and a few potion bottles. Finally he pulled a piece of parchment out of the man's pockets and proceeded to read what was on it. Lydia slowly began to shuffle forward, unsure whether to or not.  
"My thane? she asked. "Is everything alright?" Darion was silent for a moment, before standing up quickly and began springing his way through the crowd that had slowly gathered to view the carnage. The crowd parted for him as the Dragonborn raced his way down towards the gates. "Darion!" Lydia called after him as she tried to catch up. By the time she had finally caught up to him, he was already outside the walls at the stables, saddling his horse. "What is going on? Where are you going?"  
"I need to leave Whiterun for a while," he said, pushing his own way through the gates.  
"We're leaving?" Lydia asked, shocked at his words. "Ulfrics army will be here soon! The city needs us!"  
"I'm going alone, you'll remain here and represent me on the Jarls war council," he said as pulled the final strap of the saddle into place.  
"Darion, no!" she protested. "If we're not staying here then I'm going with you to wherever you need to go! I swore an oath that I would remain by your side and-"  
"Lydia!" Darion cut her off, causing her to almost cringe in fear. "If you have any loyalty to your Thane, you will remain here and do as I have commanded." She averted her eyes away from him, refusing to meet his gaze. He sighed at this, and placed a gloved hand on her shoulder. "And if you respect me as your friend," he continued, his tone much softer than before, "then you'll understand that I have to do this alone." Lydia looked to him now, her eyes almost with tears in them.  
"How long will you be gone?" she asked.  
"I'm not sure, but I promise I will return." He said, a small smile on his lips, his hand rising from her shoulder to her cheek. "Do you understand?" Lydia didn't like it, not one bit. She was being asked to go against her duties as a Housecarl and leave her Thane to whatever end he was riding towards. All the same though, she respected his wishes, and nodded her head in silent agreement. He pulled her head down slightly, and she became very nervous all of a sudden. But he simply stood on his toes, and kissed her on the forehead. "I know you'll make me proud." He said, before mounting his horse.   
"You be safe," she warned him. "Or I'll come after your soul and punch you so hard all of Sovengarde will feel it. Darion smiled again.   
"I'm sure you will." he said, before urging the horse forward, taking off from the stables at a gallop. Lydia stood there, watching ride away into the east. Though she knew she would see him again, she felt in her heart that when he returned, she would not be looking at the same man. 

As Darion continued to press his horse onward, through the hidden trails in the country in order to avoid the approaching Stormcloaks, he was tempted to stop and see how many of Ulfrics army he could destroy by himself. However he knew that his destination was not combat, at least not in Skyrim.   
'If my dream is to become a reality,' he thought to himself as he rode, 'I cannot have another Dragonborn capable of thwarting my plans and challenging my right to rule.'


	5. The Siege Part 1

"We are already sealing the gates as best as we can," Hrongar spoke, pointing to the spot on a map of the city. The war council had gathered around a table on the upper level of the palace. The council sat around the table, most of them standing for a view of the map. They included Jarl Balgruuf, his brother Hrongar, Irileth, Commander Caius the captain of the Whiterun Guard and Proventus Avenicci. "We've begun evacuating whatever people live outside the walls, mostly famers and the workers from the meadery."   
"How long will it take to get them inside the walls?" Jarl Balgruuf asked.  
"I sent some of my men to get them moving," Caius spoke. "Evacuations are going slowly, most of the farmers trying to save what crops they can, I can send more down there and get them moving."  
"No," the Jarl waved away the idea. "We will need more of that food for when the Stormcloaks arrive."  
"I have spoken to other merchants in town" Proventus added. "They have agreed to our levies, and have been promised suitable amounts of compensation for when the siege is over." Caius scoffed at this.  
"If we make out alive to pay them," he mumbled spitefully, though everyone ignored him.  
"Have we had any word from the Companions yet?" Balgruuf asked, sounding hopeful, only receiving silence from his council.  
"Our messengers have all been turned away from Jorrvaskr my lord," Proventus informed him. "They say that they refuse to take part in a fight that is not theirs."  
"Do they realise that they will burn with a rest of the city if they do not?" Caius asked.  
"No such thing," Hrongar stated. "If the men and women in Ulfric's army dare call themselves true Nords, not one of them will tough the mead hall of the Companions." The council fell silent in that moment. For at least two weeks they had been preparing for the oncoming battle, sending out riders to hire any travelling sell swords they came across, gathering and preserving as much food as they could, preparing the defences and taking stock on armaments.   
"Well then," Balgruuf said, sitting back into his chair, his eyes idly scanning over the map, as if missing something. "I suppose all we can do now is wait for the enemy to arrive and pray that the gods are with us."  
"What of the Dragonborn? Is there truly no sign of him?" Hrongar asked, receiving only silence as he had many times before when he had asked that same question. "What of his housecarl? Lydia, where is she?" It was Balgruuf that answered this time.  
"I have left her in charge of overseeing her own patrol through the city streets. She is to report anything she comes across to Caius' men."  
"But she was to represent the Dragonborn on this council," Hrongar argued. "She was to speak for him, giver her knowledge and counsel. Her experience with the Dragonborn could be invaluable!"  
"I have already spoken to her," Commander Caius spoke. "And trust me, there is nothing that she can contribute to this council besides serving as another soldier."  
"And we are to make that judgement based on your opinion?" Hrongar argued. "You are barely in command of your own men, let alone worthy enough to judge a capable warrior like the Housecarl!" The Jarl rose from his chair, and all went silent. The dark bags under his eyes only added to the stare he gave his brother.   
"My decision has been made, Lydia will continue the duty given to her until the Stormcloaks arrive." He began to walk away towards his chambers, Irileth following close behind him. "Maybe then we will see if she is a warrior truly worthy of protecting the Dragonborn." The council fell into silence, their thoughts directed at the Dragonborn. Balgruuf, Irileth and Proventus had all listened to him speak of how he would always be ready to defend the city, how he imagined the looks on the faces of Stormcloak soldiers when they saw the Dragonborn defending the walls of Whiterun. And yet now he was gone, replaced instead by the memory of a man who was nowhere to be seen.  
"Jarl Balgruuf!" a cry echoed from the lower levels of the palace. The council turned to find a guardsman, removing his helm as he ran up the stairs, past the table and knelt before the Jarl, who only stopped where he he stood. "My lord, Stormcloak cavalry, less than an hours ride from the outskirts of the city!"  
"They must have rode ahead of the army, they'll try to kill off what forces we have remaining outside the walls!" Caius exclaimed. "I will have them return immediately," he said, saluting before beginning to march out of the palace.   
"No," Hrongar said, stopping the guard captain. "we still have at least a hundred people still evacuating outside the walls, they'll be slaughtered like cattle if the we pull back the guards!"  
"We must look to the greater good Thane Hrongar," Caius argued. "The fewer men we have defending the walls, the greater our chances of being overrun."  
"What was the point of appointing you Captain of the watch if you will not protect the people under your charge?" Irileth questioned. "The men will remain outside the walls, and do their best to speed the evacuations."  
"I do not take orders from you, elf, and last time I checked, the only one who could have turned the tide of this battle for us, abandoned-"  
"Enough!" Balgruuf shouted, silencing the whole of the council, his back still to them. A sling silence drew out over that, the councils waiting on the Jarl's word. "Caius…" he spoke, and the Imperial snapped to attention. "How long would it take to bring your men back into the city?" Most of the other council members sighed at that, shaking their heads, some hating the idea of the Jarl siding with Caius, others thinking about how many innocent lives they were about to lose.

 

The hearth crackled faintly, it's light sending shadows dancing around the room. Though the fire burned, Lydia could not feel it's warmth, could not feel the heat. Though she sat there, in a wooden chair just opposite the small flame, she did not see it's embers or it's light. All she saw was Darion, and the smile he gave her before riding off to wherever it was he had left for.  
'I know you'll make me proud,' he had said. How could she possibly make him proud. She wasn't like him, she was not a hero, she was not Dragonborn. She was Lydia. No title to represent her deeds, nor an ancient and proud clan name of which to draw strength from. She was the Housecarl, she was barely mentioned in tales or songs of Darion's triumphs, and even when she was it was only to add the mystery and rumour of romance between her and her Thane. She was no one, and because of that she had been tossed aside by the Jarl's war council, left to patrol the streets like a common guard.   
'It's only been two weeks since you've been gone, and already I feel as weak as I was before I met you.' she spoke to herself. Before she had met Darion she had been nothing, a skilled warrior for certain, recognised by the Jarl's own Housecarl. But despite all that she was still nobody, and for the longest of time she had accepted that, and was prepared to die a nobody. And then he came into her life. With his lack of responsibility, short temper, quick wit and his promise of glory. Though he had been unwelcoming at first, even distant at times, he quickly recognised her potential, and the fact that she could be somebody. And for the first time in her life, Lydia had felt like she belonged. Though she would only be recognised as the Housecarl, as the Shield-Maiden of the Dragonborn, as long as she could fight by his side she was happy, as long as she had somewhere and someone to turn to, she was content.  
And now all that was gone. She had no idea where he was, whether he was alive or dead, whether he was laying on a beach drinking with women or whether he was stranded and calling for help that would never come. Regardless, she had failed. As she sat their, contemplating and thinking her way into a pit of despair and misery, a knock sounded from the door. She did not answer, and the knocking continued until the door began to slowly open. As it did, the light entered the small abode, casting the man who stood in the door way in shadow. For a moment Lydia thought it was Darion, but only became sadder when her eyes adjusted to see the tall armoured figure of Leandros.   
"So," he said as he entered the house. "The Housecarl Lydia sits in the dark, giving up hope as the Whiterun enters it's darkest hour."  
"I'm not giving up," Lydia snapped back, but she barely had the anger to make it sound convincing. "I'm accepting reality."  
"And what reality is that?"  
"The one where I have failed, the one where my Thane is no where to be seen."  
"So you are giving up." Leandros stated, sighing and crossing his arms. "You're pathetic." The insult came as a surprise to Lydia, and she looked up at him. "To think that Dragonborn put up with your nonsense all this time. He must be glad to be rid of you."  
"How dare you!" Lydia shouted, finding her anger this time as she stood from her seat, causing it to fall back. "You can't just come in here, criticising me for doing nothing! You and your drunken crowd are the ones who refuse to do anything. You're all just sitting there in Jorrvaskr, drinking and brawling when the city needs you, when it's looking to you to help them!" She let herself catch her breath, her eyes glaring daggers at the Harbinger. "I may be weak, but I'm accepting my weakness, whilst you have the power to act and yet you refuse to." he sighed, moving further into the house.   
"Did you read the letter that Darion sent you to give me?" he asked.   
"Never, it was sealed, and to do so would be a breach of my Thane's trust."  
"And has he told you about his plans for Tamriel?" The question came at a great surprise to Lydia.   
"He has spoken of it," she said, suddenly going quiet.   
"And how do you feel about it? What do you think about his plans for domination?" She remained quiet this time. How did she feel about it? At first his words had been a mixture of ramblings and over excited ideas. He had spoken of it many times since then during their travels from the Reach, to High Hrothgar and back to Whiterun. He would speak long and endlessly about his dreams and goals. How he intended to bring an end to the racism of Nords like Ulfric or the zealous beliefs of the Thalmor. His dreams sounded great in retrospect, but that was all they were, dreams. He was not of noble birth and held no lands save Breezehome. He had no army, no allies nor any funding for campaigns. The list continued, and with each entry the dream of a united Tamriel became evermore distant.  
"I think he had the right idea," Leandros continued. "I think that if history could repeat itself, and a Dragonborn became the one to unite Tamriel, I think that I would follow that man into Oblivion." He looked to Lydia now. "Which was half of the reason he had wrote his letter to me." Lydia looked back at him at hearing that, unsure of what he meant. "The letter he sent spoke of a contract, and a detailed explanation of his plans for Tamriel. He said that whilst he will wait until meeting me to go over his plans, he has paid for the contract of us to defend Whiterun alongside him."  
"Then why are you still here?" Lydia asked, "Why refuse the jarl's pleas for aid?"  
"Because the contract was written in a way that we may only join the battle at his side, or that of another, namely you."  
"Me?" She did not believe a word that he said, and Leandros could tell that. His hand dove into his pocket, pulling out a folded letter that he proceeded to unfold and read.  
"And should my absence from Whiterun be noted, the earlier discussed terms of this contract are hereby transferred to my Housecarl Lydia, who will serve as my personal proxy for the battle. You will take your orders from her, and will join the battle only when she does. And above all else," he stopped for a moment, looking at Lydia, smiling at her. "Protect her with your lives. Signed, Darion Octavius, Thane of Whiterun, and Dragonborn." He folded the letter, returning it to his pocket. Lydia continued to sit in silence as a single tear rolled down her cheek. "Now," Leandros continued to speak. "I've received word from amongst the Jarl's men. The Stormcloaks are sending a raiding party. There are still people being evacuated outside the walls, and Jarl is drawing back his soldiers, rather than having them stay and protect the people." He placed a fist over his heart. "My brothers and sisters are at your disposal, Lydia. They gather outside for you as we speak. Should you find yourself free from the shackles of your sorrow, we'll be ready to ride with you into the depths of Oblivion should that day come. And should you need more convincing that those were your Thane's words," he clapped his hands twice, and in walked a tall, muscle bound Nord in steel armour. Lydia knew him to be Farkas, one of Leandros' Shield-Brothers. In his hands he carried a chest, that he slowly placed on the ground in front of her before nodding and walking out.  
"What is this?" she asked, looking to Leandros.   
"From the sounds of it," he said as he began to walk out. "I think it's a gift." And with that he left, closing the door behind him, leaving Lydia staring at the box as if something were to jump out and attack her. She sat that way for at least a few minutes before finally finding the strength to stand up and walk towards it. She ran her hands over the wooden surface and gasped. This was the same chest that she had taken to Eorland the day Darion had left. Slowly she knelt down, her fingers lifting the lid. As light flooded into the box, she saw shape covered by a grey sheet. On top of the sheet however was a piece of parchment, sealed and signed with her name. She reached in, grabbing the parchment before standing again to open and read it. She gasped as she saw her Thane's handwriting.

Lydia,  
If this letter is reaching you then it probably means that I have died, or I'm absent at this time, preferably the latter. If I have died however, there is so much that I wish I could have told you, how I our time fighting side by side has been blessing from the Divines. If I have left you alone in the world I apologise greatly for that, but know that wherever I am, no matter how much you may blame yourself, it is not your fault. If I have passed from this world, Breezehome, all that I own and the contents of this chest belong to you now, they are my gift to you for your tireless dedication and loyalty to me. As much as it pains me not to present it to you in person, I know that you will do great things with it all the same. You are my most trusted and most loyal friend, and I count you as one of the few people in this world that I can truly rely on. My gift to you is the culmination of our travels together, and I would like to think of it as the embodiment of my trust in you. No matter how you use it, I know you will make me proud and you will live your life to it's greatest potential.   
Your friend, Darion.

At reaching the end of the letter, Lydia could not help but notice the tear stains that now dotted the parchment. She smiled, holding the letter to her chest, hoping that wherever he was in the world, he could feel her gratitude. Her eyes now moved to the sheet that lay over the other contents of the chest. Slowly her hand made for the sheet. She stopped for a moment, unsure whether to continue, but she swallowed her doubts and snatched the sheet from the chest. When she saw what lay beneath, her mouth fell open.   
"Thank you Darion," she said, and for the first time in what felt like forever for her, she smiled.

 

"Do you think she will come?" Aela asked as she and the other Companions sat around outside the house. "She's taking quite a while."  
"Perhaps she will, perhaps she won't. But we will wait here regardless." Leandros said, his arms crossed.  
"Why?" Ria asked, who sat beside Athis.  
"Because I have faith," Leandros told her. "If she's half the woman I think her to be, she'll do what's right." The Companions were left waiting for a while after he said that, but they did not question their Harbinger. Though his title traditionally made him an advisor for the Companions rather than a leader, the warrior band were ready to follow his every lead and word. Soon they heard the hinges of house creak, and those who sat stood up quickly, all their eyes cast upon the door. At first they her face, her hair that had once flown freely tied back into a pony tail. It was after only after that they saw her armour. She adorned a myriad of chain mail, leather straps and what looked like bone. From her shoulders down, nearly every inch of her body, save for elbows which remained exposed, were covered in Dragonbone. On her back hung a shield at lest half her size and at least three inches thick. Under her arm she held a terrifying horned helmet, a mixture of steel and bone, with the mouth area covered by a thin leather mask. And strapped to her waist was a sword of matching style, even though it remained it it's scabbard the Compaions could almost sense how sharp it was. Leandros smiled, approaching the woman that stood before him.  
"Glad to see Eorland got your measurements right," he said. "Now, what would you have the Companions do?" Lydia looked at the crowd of warrior who stood before her, eagerly awaiting her command. She pondered forShe grabbed her helmet, holding it in both hands before sliding it over her head. The only thing left of the Housecarl were the brown eyes that now burned with confidence from within the helmet.  
"Follow me," she said. "It's time we let the Stormcloaks know who they're about to pick a fight with."

 

"Run!" a man called.  
"Where are the guards?" A woman cried.  
"Mama! Where are you mama!" A child wailed. All of these shouts, each time a different man woman or child, each time the sight of blue banners, and at least fifty riders getting closer and closer. At least a hundred people, mostly consisting of farmers, many of whom carried their tools with them as a precaution, ran for the city and the safety of it's walls. Among them were carts being pulled by the people or the mules, filled with the food and belongings that they brought with them. Some mothers and fathers discarded their carts to pick up their children and run with them in their arms. A young woman tried to hush the babe in her arms that cried out in distress. It didn't matter how fast they ran, it seemed as if the Stormcloaks edged further and further towards them, as if they were trying to outrun the coming of the night by travelling west.  
A young boy, no older than seven, tripped on a rock and fell to the ground with a cry. As he lay there, his hands went for his ankle, tears streaming down his eyes as he noticed the unnatural angle his foot now sat in. A man from the crowd, too young to be the father, ran to the boys aid, scooping him off the ground. As he turned back to the crowd however, all he could hear were the thundering of hooves, and calls of men and women. A line of calvary rode past them, lead by a woman in a magnificent suit of armour. The man could not help but stare at them, and recognise them as the Companions as they rode past. Along with several others from the crowd, the man cheered them as they rode towards the threat, but quickly turned back and ran with the boy.

Lydia held up her hand, signalling the Companions to stop, and the warriors brought their horses to a halt at either side of her, forming a line of beasts and mounted riders. She looked on at the horde approaching them, that roared in excitement at the arrival of a challenge. Many of the Stormcloaks carried shields and spears, other with swords, axes maces and even a few great swords were hefted by the mightier among them. There numbers were far greater, there was no doubt about that, overshadowing the mere nine riders of Whiterun.   
"Well we didn't get dressed up for nothing." Torvar, said, receiving a laugh from his brothers and sisters. Leandros, who rode beside Lydia, wearing his bear shaped helmet, looked over to the Housecarl.   
"We're ready when you are, Lydia, just give the word." Before she could open up her mouth to reply, the sound of shouting and the stride of another horse approaching caught her attention.  
"Housecarl Lydia!" the voice said, and a new rider rode in front of the line of Companions. He was a Whiterun guardsmen, his helm hiding his face. "Housecarl Lydia!" he called again, unable to recognise her from among the throng of warriors riding. Lydia urged her horse forward, identifying herself. The guardsmen was surprised to see it was the most armoured of all the riders that ws the Housecarl. "Housecarl, Commander Caius orders you to bring the Companions back into Whiterun, he says that-"  
"You can kindly tell the commander that if I do these people behind us will die," she cut him off. "We'll hold the Stormcloak cavalry for as long as we have to until every man woman and child is safely behind the wall, either the people make it inside, or none of us will." She looked to the guardsman now, her eyes narrowed within her helmet, as if addressing Caius himself. "Ensure that the Commander is made very much aware of that." The guard would have argued, but her stood now before a woman that not only fought alongside the Dragonborn, but also at that moment commanded the respect of some of the greatest warriors in Skyrim.  
"Gods preserve you Housecarl," he said, before urging his horse into a gallop as he rode back towards the city. Once he had gone, Leandros urged his horse forward also, standing by her side.   
"That ought to give Caius something to think about," he said with a smile. Lydia smiled also, though it dropped quickly as she turned to look to him.  
"Are you with me?" she asked. Leandros looked to her now, the cold seriousness of battle that made him Harbinger, etched onto his face.  
"To the death." he said. Lydia nodded her thanks before reaching for her sword, drawing it from it's scabbard. It was heavier than she had thought it to be, and she wondered as to how Darion had become so fast in using his own blade. But it was looked just as deadly as it was beautiful, and she had faith in Eorland's craftsmanship. As she drew her blade, she heard the Companions draw their own weapons ranging from swords, axes, great swords and bows. To her side leandros drew his own blade, a glass sword, it's blade a golden colour whilst it's hilt was ruby red. As he drew it, the blade ignited, and Lydia almost fell from her horse in fright. But he held herself composed, raising her sword about her head before pointing towards the enemy.   
The Companions started at a walk, then a trot, then broke out into a full gallop towards the enemy. Even with their speed picking up, Lydia could feel time around her slow for a second. It was like something out of the great tales, the ones about heroes courageously charging unthinkable odds with dauntless resolve. For a moment she felt excited, proud to take her place among such deeds, but she quickly pushed the thought to the side, there was a fight to be had.   
"For Whiterun!" she shouted.  
"For Whiterun!" the Companions chorused, sending a chill down her spine. The Stormcloaks drew closer, and closer, Lydia even being able to see the fear on their faces as they realised that they rode to war against the might of Jorrvaskr. As the lines drew nearer, an arrow flew from the Companions line, embedding itself in the head of a Stormcloak mount, who fell to the ground, throwing it's rider, and causing many of it's brethren to panic and trip over his horse. At lest two more arrows found their way into the Stormcloak lines before the two sides clashed. Horses screamed alongside men, sword rang or thudded on shields, and blood soaked the soil.   
Lydia had raised her shield barely in time to deflect a spear tip, snapping the weapon in two. Before the Stormcloak had time to realise what had just happened, Lydia lowered her shield, plunging her sword into the man's chest. After that it became a storm of blades and blood. In the space of a few minutes she cut a man's head, cut through a man's shield taking his arm and had stabbed half a dozen different men in the chest. In the confusion she turned, her horse, trying to find Leandros, but found staring at the other Companions as they fought. It was as if they were the very spirit of combat taken form. Every movement the made, be it with their blade or their footing was made with the utmost precision and skill. She watched as Vilkas, Farkas' brother, leaped from his horse, sending three other men down with him in panicking throng of horses. Even stared down with three different opponents the Companion did not relent. He stepped forward, stabbing one, before raising his shield to stop a blow from another. In one motion he Wrenched his sword free of the first man, cutting the throat of a third before moving on to the man whose blow he had blocked.  
She continued to watch as Aela, known mostly as 'The Huntress,' leaped from her horse, bow in one hand, dagger in the other. She flew through the air as if guided by Kyne, leaping from horse to horse, cutting the throats of their riders as she leaped across the battle filed. When Lydia finally caught sight of Leandros, he was already dismounted, surrounded by half a dozen Stormcloaks. Lydia began hacking her way through, desperate to get to him. He waved his sword above his head, letting the flames erupting from it give off a terrifying display. Whilst the Stormcloaks were too busy thinking about whether to strike or not, Leandros charged from his position, bashing his shilled against the skull of one, before turning to slash another across the chest, all the while his sword leaving a blazing trail no matter where it was swung. By the time he ended his swathe of destruction, at least twice the amount of men who had surrounded him prior now laid dead. The Harbinger noticed the Housecarl, fighting her way through the mass of soldiers, and raised his sword in a salute, which Lydia returned in kind.  
Soon a horn sounded from amongst the Stormcloaks, and one by one the remaining rider began to break and run from the storm of steel and death that was the Companions. As they ran, Lydia tried to urge her horse forward, but Leandros stepped in front of the beast with his arms raised, stopping it in it's tracks.   
"What are you doing?" Lydia protested. "We've almost won this!"  
"We've already won," Leandros stated, "Let them return to their master, they're worth more to us alive than dead."  
"How could that possibly be true? The more of them we leave alive, the more of them we will be repelling from the walls." Lydia argued.  
"True, but they will return with stories of their defeat, stories of how a handful of riders sent an entire cavalry unit packing." Leandros lowered his arms. "The entire Stormcloak army will know now that to march on Whiterun, is to march on Jorrvaskr." He looked amongst his brothers and sisters. None of them had died, he thanked the gods for that, but many of them were wounded. Athis had taken a spear to the gut, Torvar was missing his entire left hand and Njada had taken an arrow in knee. They would need to be taken back into the city for healing, and to see whether they could save Torvar's hand. Lydia had followed Leandros' gaze, and she had been too caught up in the heat of battle that she had neglected to notice the pain that many of them were in.   
"We will return to Whiterun," she ordered. "As slowly as we need to." Leandros bowed his head and made for his horse.

When the Companions returned to Whiterun, the wounded wavering on their saddles, they were met with cheering, shouts of praise and respect, many coming from the evacuees but also many of the guards and soldiers that had seen the battle for themselves. Lydia had taken off her helm not, resting it on her saddle as they made their way through the gates of the city, which were quickly sealed when the last of the riders made it through.   
"Hail Companions!" one man shouted.  
"Divines bless you! cried another.   
"Glory to the Housecarl" others cheered. As the warriors dismounted, the wounded being helped down before being delivered into the arms of various healers, they found themselves almost overwhelmed with the amount of people who gathered in the streets to see them. Receiving pats on the back or more cheers, the Companions lead their horses up the street and into the city. When they reached the end of the Wind District, they left their horses, and began to climb the stairs towards the palace. Before long however, Lydia could see the figures of the Jarl, his retinue, as well as Commander Caius approaching, all of them flanked by soldiers. As they approached, the soldiers made way for the Commander, who marched his way furiously down the stairs ahead of the Jarl. He met Lydia half way, at a small bridge flanked either side by a pool of water. When he stood before the Companions, with Lydia at their head, all went silent in the district below.  
"I ordered you to return to the city," he began. "And you have the nerve to march back in here like conquering heroes? You're all nothing but reckless fools, the lot of you!" A few members in the crowd had the courage to boo at the commander, throwing curses and insults at the ageing Imperial.   
"Commander I-" Lydia began but was cut off by a raised hand from him.  
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't have you thrown into the dungeons for disloyalty." Silence followed, a long and unsettling silence. As it went on, Lydia simply shrugged, before throwing her armoured fist into the Commander's face. The crowd cheered as the man fell into the water with a loud splash, their cheers made louder by many of the guards.  
"Shove your disloyalty up your arse, Commander," Lydia spat. "Unlike you, we just rode out there and saved lives, whilst you were prepared to watch them get run down by those cowards who dare call themselves Nords." Her eyes flicked to the Jarl, who now approached the scene, surprised to see Caius in the water, holding a bleeding nose. "Jarl Balgruuf," Lydia said as she knelt to the ground. "I understand that I went against your wishes, but I-"  
"You bloody fool," the Jarl said, and a murmur went through the crowd. "You honestly think I care about that?" He moved towards her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "You saved my people, and for that you have my deepest gratitude." he said, bowing his head to her, and a cheer went up from among the crowd. Lydia looked from the crowd, back to the Jarl, meeting his blue eyes. "Darion would be proud of you," he said with a smile.   
"Thank you my Lord." she said, standing up with the Jarl, who walked past her to face the crowd.   
"Though we have struck a blow against the false king, Ulfric Stormcloak," he began. "We must not forget that the times to come will be harsh ones. We must work together, regardless our names or our heritage, if we are to stand triumphant against this darkness." Many of the crowd murmured in agreement, besides a few members of the Grey-Mane and Battle-Born clans. "From this day, I declare that Lydia, Housecarl to the Dragonborn, will take command of our forces. Her fire and spirit will burn bright in the darkness, and when dawn breaks on Whiterun, it will be her who leads the songs of triumph as we revel in our victory!" A great roar erupted from the crowd, cheering from everyone from the beggars, to the soldiers, all the way to the Companions who stood at the front of the crowd. The Jarl looked once more at Caius, who had only now began to climb out of the pool. "Caius," the Jarl spoke, "Consider your command temporarily suspended," before climbing up the steps towards his palace.  
Lydia wanted to look to Caius and smile at him for her own pleasure, but a new sound from the crowd stopped her.   
"Housecarl! Housecarl! Housecarl!" they chanted. The feeling was nothing like Lydia had ever felt, and she wondered for a moment, if this was the kind of feeling Darion had when he returned from slaying his first dragon. Slowly however, at the insistence of the Companions, the cheer changed, it was not Housecarl they cheered now, but something new, something that the Companions cheered the loudest.  
"Dragonhide! Dragonhide! Dragonhide!" Lydia looked to Leandros, who smiled at her, as he lead the cheer from amongst the ranks of the Companions.   
'Lydia Dragonhide,' she thought to herself. 'I could get used to that.'


End file.
